


thank you for being born

by unhappyrefrain



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Body Worship, Emotional Sex, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Character Death, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, Self-Indulgent, Sort of? - Freeform, lucifer being unintentionally cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:05:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14757992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappyrefrain/pseuds/unhappyrefrain
Summary: "...I will make up for it. All those years…” He tilts your face back towards him, with the barest of touches. You look up, and your suspicions are confirmed when you see him— he’s crying. Silently, calm blue eyes welling over with tears, so long-awaited and so much like your own. “All those years, and I had to die before I could understand.”(Lucifer and Sandalphon make up for lost time.)





	thank you for being born

**Author's Note:**

> one of these days i was going to have to do it and i did it. i'm sorry but also you're welcome  
> you can also set this in the same universe as eyes of icarus if you want, it lines up
> 
> background: lucifer is??? resurrected i guess??? in more of a skydweller body that can feel, y'know, intense emotions and stuff. obviously there is a lot more processing, communication and development between that occurrence and this, but i'm lazy and gay and just wanted to get to the sappy shit already. also apparently i can't write porn of these two that isn't all pretty and not actually porny. it took all my fucking courage to even mention a dick i swear to god
> 
> gw is kicking my ass and i have three other WIPs that i want to finish but Unfortunately, hell,

“Have you always felt this way?”

He leans over you, his fingers brushing over your cheek, watching you like he’s watching a sunset. You shiver at the touch, at the gaze. It holds the same tenderness it always did, but there’s heat at his fingertips and in his eyes that you’ve never felt or seen before from him, that you’ve always dreamed of experiencing— in the nights, when no one was around to see your weakness, when you would close your eyes and imagine your hands were his, imitate the tinges of desire you wished he could show with every movement, letting your (his) fingers ghost over your inner thigh and slip beneath—

You stop thinking, because he’s right there. Lucifer is right _there_ and he’s waiting for your response and one of his hands is trailing its thumb down your neck, over the vein where your pulse beats _._ His wings may be yours now, but from where he’s above you, you can almost see them, blinding light guarding the two of you from the rest of the world.

“Yes,” you breathe, “yes, always.”

He gives a soft chuckle. “I don’t know if I should apologize for making you like that, or if I should be glad I did.”

“Apologize,” you say, stubbornly, “for the first 2000 years. And then you can show as much gratitude as you want.”

You’re only half-joking— you’re more than a bit impatient, and you want him already, but the thought of him apologizing, giving closure to the resentment and passion that has been boiling inside you for two millenia, is tempting. You always wondered why he made you so human, gave you the capacity to feel so much when he would never feel the same, and it destroyed you, it still destroys you; even now with his new body and his new, reborn heart like yours, it lingers, and...

“I’m so sorry, Sandalphon.”

His voice is so genuine. So quiet, so reverent. You thought maybe he would laugh, or apologize instead with his lips against yours (and you wouldn’t protest that) but you didn’t expect this. He’s apologized already for— most of it, for putting his duty above his love for you, for leaving you behind in that horrible prison, for so one-sidedly bestowing you with these wings that weigh as much as a world, for not realizing just how deeply he had hurt you. This should be just another facet. But you didn’t realize just how much you wanted to hear that until he says it, and your eyes fill with tears.

“Nonsense,” you say, your voice a trembling laugh. “Stupid. You didn’t need to actually say that.”

“But I know you needed to hear it.” His hand brushes a lock of hair from your eye. You blink, and a tear spills over, and his gaze grows wide, apologetic. He wipes it away with his thumb, and when it’s not enough, and the tears keep coming, he leans down to kiss the corners of your eyes. So attentive, so understanding. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, letting a sob pour from your throat.

“When I was asleep, in Canaan, in the cocoon, I... You would come to visit me, and y-you would touch me like this, but they can’t have been anything more than illusions, right? Just dreams... you were always somewhere else...”

The sorrowful smile he gives you is enough of an answer. You lean your face into the side of the pillow, avoiding his gaze.

“It may not have been me, then,” Lucifer says, and you think you hear a catch in his voice. “But it will be me, from now on. I will make up for it. All those years…” He tilts your face back towards him, with the barest of touches. You look up, and your suspicions are confirmed when you see him— he’s crying. Silently, calm blue eyes welling over with tears, so long-awaited and so much like your own. “All those years, and I had to die before I could understand.”

“Don’t,” you breathe, hoarsely. “No more words.” Watching him cry is— it shakes your core. You feel unstable, drifting, unsure what to believe in anymore besides his love. But that is all you need, right now, and you cling to it, to him. “Make up for it, then. Show me. Prove to me that I’m yours.”

He responds only with a kiss. No words, nothing else unnecessary— his lips capture yours, and you melt underneath him, shuddering in his arms as he slips one arm under your back and cradles your face with the other, presses his entire body against you. Every movement is deliberate and slow, the way he pulls you close, takes your bottom lip between his, opens you slightly more to him. A gust of breath tickles your cheek, warm and sweet and shaky, and something swells in your chest at the notion that he’s just as vulnerable as you are, like this. The hand under the arch of your back slides down, traces a thumb over the last few ribs on your side, and you moan quietly into the kiss, muffled into his mouth.

His name is on your lips— he kisses that off, too, drinks down each gentle sound from your throat. You slide your hands up into his hair, let them tangle into it, feeling the softness of it between your fingers, and he traces his wandering hand up under the hem of your shirt, over the flat planes of your sides and the softness below the joining of your ribs. He breaks the kiss, lets you gulp down much-needed air— you notice your chest is rising and falling faster, and it takes you a moment to realize you’re breathless.

“Sandalphon,” he whispers.

Everything in you twists up when he says your name, every single time. He always, always says it like he’s tasting it, savoring it the same way you savor each sip of coffee in your mouth before swallowing, letting each flavor and note permeate your senses, processing each unfolding. Like he can’t get enough of the sounds of it, each syllable a new music he’s never even heard, much less sung before.

“Lucifer...”

You test it out. Nearly slipping back into old honorifics, old ways of address— but he touches his finger to your lips before you can enunciate the S, the beginnings of worship.

“No more of that. Let me worship _you_.”

“But I don’t—”

“Shh.” He kisses you before you can finish your sentence. You whine into his mouth, both frustrated and relieved. “Entrust yourself to me. Let me take care of you.”

A frisson of need runs down your spine and leaves heat spreading in its wake. There’s so much adoration, so much _desire_ in his voice that your breath catches. You feel lightheaded, as he leans back into you and kisses you again, slow and deep, your eyes falling shut as you respond to the touch of his lips. His hands run back down your sides, grip your waist, trace over the bone of your hip; he runs his thumb over it, and you shudder, warmth emanating out through your body from the lines of his touch. “Lucifer,” you finally say, in a whisper you’ve never quite heard from your own mouth. Something halfway to pleading, a gentle exclamation of wonder, unsure whether to believe in the feeling of his hands on your skin. He kisses the corner of your mouth, dips under your chin to push your head back and trail his lips down your neck. Your chest heaves, and you drape your arms around his shoulders, pressing yourself closer to him, trying not to just grind against him like some sort of animal, but failing as your back arches into him, as his hand trails further down, sliding under the hem of your leggings and oh, _oh_ —

“Luci— _aah_ ,” you gasp out, immediately feeling the urge to draw back, to separate yourself, to keep him from dirtying himself in any capacity. But he presses forward when you shrink back, and his eyes are questioning as he looks back up at you, and you can’t make eye contact. His face is creased in worry. You’re vaguely aware that you’re blushing, and that you’re embarrassingly hard.

“Is this not good?”

“No, it’s... it’s fine. I just, got shy.” You press your face into your hand, unable to stand his gaze on you any longer. He slides himself downwards over your body, kisses just under your navel, and you shiver, biting down gently on the web of skin between your thumb and index finger to keep from making any particularly embarrassing noises. “This is...”

 _This is beyond anything I could have imagined_ , you want to say. _I could have never believed you would be touching me like this. So reverently, like I’m worthy of worship— worthy of anything beyond a cold gaze and an even colder floor—_

His hand steadies itself, as if waiting for a sign, and then, when he’s ascertained you aren’t going to squirm away, it slips under the waistband and wraps around your cock.

That single touch drives you mad. You can barely _stand_ it. Your head falls back; you push the side of your face into the pillow and moan, and the sound of your voice in your ears shocks you. It’s so loud, so _shameless,_  nothing like the bitten-back sighs you muffled into the collar of your shirt when you would touch yourself to the thought of him. Somehow, it feels like so much more— it’s _his_ hand, and you can feel the difference. His long, thin fingers; his palm arched and wide and soft, like it had never known the handle of a sword. How large his hands are, compared to your own. How much of you they can reach.

His touch leaves you, then, and you whine— but he’s undressing you instead, reaching around your back to undo the zipper of your form-fitting undershirt, peeling your leggings down to your ankles and you squirm and kick your feet quite inelegantly to get them off you. When he has your bottom half bared, he begins to stroke you, slowly, intently, feeling out every vein and ridge and detail of the shaft, like he’s rediscovering something he had kept buried; a time capsule, something he had created, kept perfectly preserved until the day he returned to bring it back to the light. He made this body, you know. Of course he knows it well. Of course this is less like learning, and more like remembering, for him. You tremble, curling your toes; you’re already dripping into his hand, more aroused than you’ve ever been, more quickly than you imagined.

“Ah,” Lucifer breathes, eyes wide, watching you intently. His thumb runs over the head of your cock, tests the wetness there, and you gasp out a held breath. “You’re... so sensitive. I never thought...”

“N-Never thought what?”

“That you would respond so well,” he says. His pupils are blown, his gaze a little glassy, as if he’s dizzied by the sight below him. “I may have made you, but I... never thought about this. About the possible reactions, to this kind of touch. They’re beautiful— _you’re_ beautiful.”

Your whole body throbs. You twitch upwards into his hand, tightening the curl of your toes and trying to suppress the shaking, the way the heat in your belly spreads like a catching fire. You’re torn apart by it. And the sound of his voice, murmuring, encouraging— it’s too much. Your legs spread wider, then press back together shyly, and Lucifer nudges one away from the other, coaxing them back apart and resuming his ministrations.

“Ah— ahh, you can’t just...” You try to protest, to tell him what his voice does to you, but it’s cut off by a moan that wells up from the bottom of your throat and bursts through your words, ripping the sentence into pieces. The heat in you continues to swell, lapping at your shores, threatening to consume everything. You realize how _easy_ you must seem, but you can’t _help_ it. “Lucifer, I, that’s so...”

“Is it good?” His eyes are half-lidded and curious, lips wet and slightly parted, and the pace of his breath is faster than you remember. “Sandalphon, please tell me, how it feels...”

_It feels like..._

_Like you’re reaching into me and holding my heart. Like you’re touching something raw and sensitive and perfect in me. Like you’re working your way to my core. Unfolding all the layers. Taking apart every inch you created. It’s so good, it’s too good, becoming yours like this is—_

You don’t say it, but you hope he can hear it, somehow. Instead, you shudder out a breath, gather what’s left of all the courage you have, and look him in the eyes, nodding weakly. You see something shift in his expression, and you know, somehow— something got through.

The greater the heat below your skin grows, the more you ache for something more. You want to be filled. To be completed. You push your hips up into his hand, meeting each stroke now with increasing fervor, unashamedly chasing that blinding pleasure. He follows your lead, until his movements outpace your hips, and by that time, you’re straining backwards, spine arching into a curve, eyes wide open, toes curling, your voice cracking and catching on his name, and you’re burning and burning and _burning_ —

“Lucifer, Lucifer, I can’t, I’m going to—”

“It’s all right, Sandalphon,” he whispers, urgently, leaning further over you so that he’s close enough to your ear for you to feel his breath. “Just let go, let me hear you, I want to hear you...”

A shudder like a red-hot wrecking ball blazes through your whole body, your whole being, to the very core of you. You feel yourself quaking, shaken down to your foundations, and you actually shout, his name a call to the heavens, a strained plea as you arch and writhe and spill mercifully into his hand. You don’t get much time to savor the afterglow, as your face immediately floods with heat once you’ve realized what you’ve done— you’ve tainted, dirtied, spoiled his perfect hands, oh, you’ve ruined everything—

He brings his fingers to his lips.

Oh. _Oh_. That’s _so_.

Your cock jerks again, dribbling pitifully, and you can’t help but whine this time as the aftershock hits you, amplified by the sheer obscenity of the sight before you. It’s... he’s... licking it off. Like it’s not dirty, or disgusting, or below him in every way. Like this isn’t absolute sacrilege, to spill the proof of your sin onto the fingers of light and right itself.

As if he wants to taste, to feel, to know every part of you.

“Sandalphon,” he murmurs, his voice throaty. “Why are you crying?”

Your hand flies to your face so fast you nearly slap yourself. He’s right— there are tears on your cheeks. You didn’t even notice, you didn’t even realize, you couldn’t tear your eyes off him, you shouldn’t have—

“I... I’m...” Something in you breaks, reverts. Your voice is a high, shivering whisper. “Please, forgive me, Lucifer-sama, I—”

“What did I tell you, Sandalphon?” He leans closer, presses the index finger of his clean hand to your lips. You close your mouth, obediently. “We are equals, now. No, I should say— you are above me, technically. I should be the one to call you—”

“Don’t,” you insist, your voice still thin, timid. “It’s weird. It would just sound wrong.”

“Then you understand. How it feels now for me.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts. You fall silent, finding yourself unable to disagree. He strokes his finger over your bottom lip, instead. “I told you. Entrust yourself to me. Your body... your heart. I want to see everything.”

“Lucifer...”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Just like that.”

Even after all this time. Two thousand years of waiting, of resentment and passion and fire. Even after losing him, gaining his wings— you still open yourself to him, just like that.

You let his voice resound in your ears, guide you, warm you. You let him coax you back down to the bed, spread your legs, kiss the insides of your thighs, the bone of your shins, your jutting hips and scarred knees. Every part of you bared to the light, each lingering wound seen so clearly. Where they operated on you, took chunks out of your flesh, cut you open and stitched you messily back together just to see the contents of your form. All the places you have been split open, torn into, broken and reformed. His lips trail over your body, and you are reborn.

You close your eyes. You let him worship you. He runs his hands up and under the arch of your back. Your six scars throb under his touch. As if the evil that created them is being purified, burned away. The deep, shuddering breath you take is both one of pain, and one of awe. You feel suddenly empty, an ache growing in the pit of your stomach.

Lucifer’s hands leave you again. You shiver at the loss of warmth. He dips over to the side, stretching his body over yours below him, and the sound of wood sliding against wood tells you exactly what he’s looking for. You feel a twist of embarrassment in your throat. You wonder if he really can sense your emotions; at the very least, your desires are connected like this. He returns, the warmth of his touch soothing you just as your mind begins to wander and whirl like the beginning winds of a storm.

“Sandalphon. I want to... I want to make you mine.”

You remember a faraway dream, something beautiful and sorrowful lost in the mist.

_(Let me... Let me have you.)_

“I’m already yours,” you tell him.

_(I’ve always been yours. Don’t make me say it again.)_

Now, he can hear this for himself. Now he can understand.

One finger, slick with oil, slips into you. It’s easy enough to take. You’ve indulged yourself like this many times before, imagining it’s him, but this is something _else_ , you realize as it sinks deeper, pushing past the point your own fingers usually stop. His hands are much larger, like everything else of him. The angle is so much more accessible, so much simpler to get to. You sigh out a little moan as you shift back onto him, searching yourself and letting him search. You’d be surprised if he didn’t know you inside and out, if he wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact place you need him most— and he does, he so easily finds it, curling his finger once he’s reached it.

You let out a pitiful whine, squirming both away from him and back onto his hand. You can’t think. His beautiful hands, his perfect fingers, touching you like this. He’s spoiling you. You don’t deserve this, and yet— and yet— you can’t help but ask for more.

“Please,” you whisper, “please, I need another,” and he obliges, pulling out and then pushing back in, spreading you wider. You groan, more in relief than anything, and your head tilts back, the back of your hair a burgeoning mess against the pillow. You’re sure the tangles will be a nest’s worth, by the time he’s done with you. And even though the thought is humorous, the concept— _by the time he’s done with you_ — makes you throb around his fingers, whimper and bite down on your lip. He’s not going to stop until he’s seen everything. Until he’s taken every hidden piece of you, run his hands over it, burned the memory into his mind so that he could never forget how you bared yourself to him.

Your hairline drips with sweat. Everything feels much too hot, much too overwhelming. He opens you up from the inside, scissoring his fingers to spread you, coaxing little desperate moans from your mouth every time he crooks them upwards and teases at your prostate. Lucifer is nothing if not patient, you know, but you are— you can’t bear to wait. He plays your body like the sweetest strings, responding to every little reaction, leaning down to kiss you so he can relish the taste of his name on your lips.

Your legs kick on either side of him, frustrated, your body attempting to loose some of the tense heat building up in any way it can. He looks down at you, his eyes wrinkled into lovely smiling half-moons, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you, and you feel like crying. Because he’s never known what he’s done to you. He’s never understood just how he makes you feel. Even now, he—

Your thoughts are interrupted by another finger finding its way in along the other two, and you claw at the sheets, riding back impatiently, panting out dry, painful breaths. “Lucifer, please, stop this, I want—”

Lucifer freezes, and his expression drops, and it makes your heart sink. He pulls his fingers out abruptly. “You want to stop?”

“No, no, you _stupid_ — how could I want to— just, just—”

You can’t say it, you can’t spit it out, it’s so selfish, so dirty, so wrong, but you can’t bear it anymore, you want him, you crave him, you _need_ him more than you’ve ever needed anything in your life, more than you need to breathe, and you’re aware of just how disgusting you might seem, begging to be defiled like this, but...

It hits you when you see his eyes. No matter the flame of lust— they are still light. He is still light. And you, you are something burning, purifying. You are joining to him, not falling, but rising like air, a ceremony of succession.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” you say, and your voice falters and breaks on the words but you’ve _said_ it. “It’s been this long. I can’t stand one more minute of it...”

His eyes widen. He blinks, looking confused for a moment, before he smiles softly— almost self-deprecating, you think.

“Ah,” he sighs. “I still have much to learn about these feelings after all.”

He looks like he’s about to cry.

“I’m so sorry. I won’t make you wait any longer. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course,” you breathe.

_I always have. I always will. Even when I shouldn’t, I always do._

“Come to me, Sandalphon.”

He opens his arms to you.

You climb up into his lap, your legs still shaking, your chest heaving. He enfolds you, envelops you. You press yourself against his chest as he sits himself up, letting you straddle him, his hands sliding down your sides. You realize you’re naked on his lap, and he’s almost fully dressed, his hair barely even disheveled.

“Not fair,” you say. “Let me see you, too.”

He sighs out a laugh, and brings his hands around to his back, unzipping his undershirt— in a surge of courage, you lean forward and rest your hands over his, pushing them off, and he lets you undo it the rest of the way, falling off from the front. Your hands falter when you move to his pants, but he does that for you instead, knowing well enough that something about that is a little more difficult for you to insist on.

And then he’s as bare as you are, as vulnerable as you have always been. You press yourself against him, climbing back into his lap, nuzzling your face into his chest. His body is so solid, this close— from far away he always looks ethereal, like a mirage, a shimmering of heat, but he’s pressing against you now, warm and real and overwhelming. You can feel how hard he is, his cock is between your thighs, and it hits you again that he wants you now just as much as you have always wanted him.

“Like this?” he asks, as you bring yourself up to your knees, hips hovering above him, arms loosely thrown around his neck. “Do you... can you...”

“Yes, yes, just... stay like that, I’ll...” You can’t hold yourself up, can’t hold yourself back. You line yourself up with him, swallowing a shaky breath when you feel the head of his cock nudging against your inner thigh, and then you shift your hips, biting your lip as you sink yourself onto him and he pushes up into you.

Immediately your mind goes white. It’s— so much more than you had imagined. In your dreams, in the cocoon, it was always so easy, an effortless, slick slide; but with these bodies, this form made flesh, what you feel first is a raw, lovely pain, the kind you want to both chase and run away from, like pressing on a bruise. You cry out, your legs immediately beginning to shake, and you forget your words, half on the verge of telling him to stop and half ready to beg for more. You don’t know what you want, you just— _want_ — and he rubs soothingly at the bones of your hips, looking up at you from below with worried eyes.

“Does it hurt? Are you alright? Sandalphon,” he says, warningly, his brow creased. You can see the pleasure fogging his eyes, clouding that gaze, but he seems more concerned with you right now. He’s always been this way. Denying himself, putting himself aside for your sake.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, though you’re not quite sure if you are. “Don’t... don’t move, yet, I need to...”

It feels much bigger than you expected. You feel split apart, filled to the brim, even though you know he’s only halfway inside you and your hips haven’t met his thighs yet, and you struggle to breathe. Even after he had taken all this time to open you up on his fingers, to make you writhe and kick and cry out, it’s still so _much,_  and you can feel sweat drip down between your shoulder blades with the effort, your whole body wrapped in a jacket of heat. Lucifer shifts himself up, brings his back against the headboard, and leans forward into you, holding you tight in his arms as you work your way down. He kisses your neck, caresses your hips and your thighs, pressing his forehead to the center of your chest and stroking your back in long, calming circles. His touch, his presence is soothing, and you breathe a little easier this time, your legs falling further apart as you try to take him in entirely.

“Relax,” he tells you, in that sweet, low voice, so close to a whisper, full of tenderness and breath. “Open up to me. You’re so lovely...”

You whine instinctively at the words of praise. Rolling your hips, circling them, trying to find a good angle as you sink down onto him, the deepest parts of you opening up on every thick, heated inch. Your hands are white-knuckled as they clutch at his shoulders. You don’t want to leave marks, you don’t want to mar his surface, but your nails dig in anyway, leaving little red half-moons behind in his perfect pale skin. He doesn’t seem bothered. But he sighs, long and low and satisfied, breath catching every so often, as you take in more and more, as you bring your bodies together little by little.

When you finally lower yourself all the way down into his lap, and he’s buried to the hilt inside you, a choked moan forces its way out from deep within your throat, and the perfect heat from before begins to pool in you again, your gut aching with the sensation of being filled up. You cry out, your eyes fluttering, and your mouth falls open in preparation for another gasp of his name as you move your hips up and forward, slowly rolling on top of him. He takes a sharp breath in, and his hands tighten on your waist.

“Sandalphon,” he breathes, his eyes wide, pupils blown with fascination and desire. “Oh, Sandalphon...”

“Lucifer,” you whine, unable to handle the way he says your name, full of adoration and need and wonder. “You’re going to kill me, don’t— ah— say my name like that, I...”

He puffs out a soft chuckle, as if acknowledging exactly what that does to you, and pulls you closer to him, one hand snaking around your back and up to your neck, stroking through your hair. You lean into him, shuddering in his arms as you move slowly, as you grow used to the sensations, the heat of him inside you.

“You feel... perfect, like this,” Lucifer murmurs, his lips close to your ear. Every word on his tongue sends a new wave of hot shivers down your spine. You know he’s being sincere, that he’s not saying these things just to turn you on— that everything he voices, no matter how erotic or embarrassing or sometimes even outright cliche, is his heart reaching out and touching yours. “We’re so close like this, so _connected,_  I don’t ever want to let go...”

“Then don’t,” you pant, rolling forward on his lap. The shape of him inside you brushes against something hidden and lovely, and you see stars— and then it vanishes, and you’re left dizzy and chasing and directionless, grasping for that place, that pleasure. “Don’t let go, you can stay inside me forever, I don’t care, I don’t care about anything else—”

Right now. Just for now. There is a world out there you have grown to care about, and it is in your arms always, reaching out for your guidance, but for now— the only weight you know is his hands on your body, gripping your waist, grounding you to him. When you leave this room you will want other things; you will want personal space, but you will also want conversation, the Captain’s kind gaze and gentle laughter, Lyria’s assertive comfort, the quiet and meaningful brush of Zooey’s fingers over the back of your hand. You will want connection to the others, that you have come to love also, in his absence— but you will never lose this. The depth of this love. The unending wish of thousands of years, written in your skin where it joins to his, finally consummated and requited and completed.

He begins to move as well, meeting each stroke of your hips with gentle, slow thrusts. His breath is hot against your ear, warming the side of your face, and you cup his cheeks in your hands and lean your forehead against his, your mouth open, gasping as you form his name. Your eyes have fluttered closed, relishing in every movement, shutting out one sense to sharpen the others— until his voice, breathy and sweet, breaks your reverie.

“Look at me, Sandalphon. Let me see you.”

Lucifer’s voice is low, gentle as it always is, but there is power behind it; a soft command, a pull you can’t quite refuse. You open your eyes reluctantly, your head still down, and when you look up through your lashes, your gaze meets his. He looks... like you’ve never seen him before. Entranced, enchanted. The usually clear blue of his eyes is veiled in another shade of fascination, of desire. He looks beautiful, as always, but he does not look untouchable anymore, and it shakes you to see him so open, so vulnerable, the way you have always been.

You have to look away, again, but it’s not the same as you remember. It doesn’t burn, to look directly into that light. You match it now, in your own way. But it is a different kind of heat that washes onto your face, and it’s almost unbearable. You duck out of his vision again— and then he cants his hips upwards and skin meets skin and he’s so deep inside you that you cry out, that your eyes snap open and your head falls back. “Lucifer— ah, that’s—”

He gives an awed sort of exhale, hands reaching up to brush the hair from your eyes. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, like he’s trying to etch it into his memory, copy the lines of your being onto his own skin. Now that you’ve grown used to the feeling, it really does seem like you were made to fit together perfectly, and the thought, the possibility, makes you shiver in both arousal and awe. He feels the shudder through you, presses deeper into you, and you rest your forehead onto his shoulder, relishing the warmth of his skin and squirming at the heat pooling in your gut.

“You’re so perfect. I want to just... memorize this, every inch...”

His hands run up the slight curve of your sides, then back down, feeling out every plane of your hips and waist and ribcage. You breathe out a whine, every sensation magnified, until his touch echoes and ripples across every nerve and sends more and more heat straight to your groin. You’re dimly aware you’re saying his name, on every shortened breath, and even though you’re not looking at him you can _feel_ his eyes on you and it makes you _ache._

“Every part of you. Sandalphon...”

His hand slips between your bodies and wraps around your cock, and your legs begin to shake in earnest. The pleasure surges through you now like an electric current, and you feel weak and lightheaded, everything in your body crying out for you to fall back limply and open your legs for him and let him just _take_ you until you burn so hot that you melt under him. But this angle is perfect, the way you can meet every thrust like this is perfect, and he’s hitting that achingly sweet spot inside you every time his hips meet yours; you can’t afford to lose this stimulation just yet, and so you hold out, gripping his shoulders for leverage and support, gasping for breath in either ecstasy or exhaustion— you’re not quite sure which.

He’s so ethereal, even now. But there is sweat beading on his brow, his pale cheeks are unusually flushed, and his mouth falls open on the shape of your name, and you realize— this isn’t him falling to your level, whatever that means. This is him evolving. Ascending, learning. Finally achieving what he wanted to understand, the wish he held when he created you. There is finally time, now, for him to reach it.

You can’t help the whimper that wells up from your throat, and you slump forward into him, moaning long and low, interrupted staccato with each of his thrusts. You want to cling to him, to leave marks, to press a part of yourself into his skin so he won’t forget. Everything is a haze of light and movement and fulfillment, of something long left unfinished finally becoming complete, a perfect sphere rebuilt from fragments. He lets you rake your nails down his back, as the sensations become almost too much; the constant stimulation has built you up to a point that you know you cannot return from. You’re almost unable to hold yourself up anymore, hard and flushed and leaking steadily into his hand, your back arching, a strained moan pouring out from deep in your lungs as he strokes you and claims you again and again.

So close, so close, you can feel everything in you coming to a boil, your core vibrating in your throat, and your eyes roll back and flutter closed; your every muscle stiffens and you feel the first rush, the first wave, rolling over you and washing away everything, everything with a cry of his name on your lips. It feels almost too good, and you arch, you spasm, you twist on top of him until you can’t make any other efforts to escape the tide of pleasure engulfing you. You fall to it, sweat dripping down your back and face and your voice high and strangled and keening, spilling all over your own thighs and his long, beautiful fingers as you pass from flesh into something else.

And then, light— so much light, _too_ much, and you wonder for a moment if you’re imagining it. But then Lucifer gasps, and it’s a different sort of gasp— stunned rather than sexual, astonished rather than aroused, like he’s just witnessed a miracle. Your whole body is twitching, your mouth open in a silent sort of prayer, and another wave of ecstasy hits you, and suddenly you feel unbalanced, heavy in all the wrong places. Weighted back, you tumble off him, landing in a bent pile of limbs on the bed, and it’s only when that fall scatters feathers around you that you realize. Your wings— _his_ wings— have manifested, the pleasure that overtook your body becoming power, and you’re enfolded in them and in their light. Lucifer’s eyes are blown wide. He lurches back over you, immediately hiking one of your legs up and over his shoulder, nestling close to your chest, his other hand running through the feathers on the middle pair of wings and garnering a shudder before he slides effortlessly back into you and your whole body convulses. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers hoarsely, and you melt underneath his gaze, full of him and lost to him yet again. “They’re so _beautiful_ on your back, oh, _Sandalphon_ , they’re _yours_ —"

“Lucifer— I, ah, y-you...”

You can’t speak anymore. There are tears welling in your eyes, and you don’t have the hands to keep them back. _They’re not mine, they’ll never be mine,_ you want to tell him, but your voice is gone, every word you’ve ever known suddenly missing, unlearned. You sob, half-twisted in pleasure and half with raw emotion, and he grips your waist and thrusts in, pushes into you and pulls you back onto him, setting a pace you didn’t know he was capable of. Sparks go off in every inch of you; your legs spread further, craving, opening up more and more for him, inviting him in. “You’re perfect, you’re so perfect, Sandalphon,” he pants out, letting his head fall into the crevice of your neck, and you push your face into his hair, holding tight to him as you cry, forgetting any sense of restraint or emotional inhibition. He is here. He is alive. He is holding you like this, he is filling you and enveloping you and overtaking you in every way, except this time it’s your wings that enfold the two of you, blinding white curtains shutting the world out, creating a chrysalis, a universe in the space between your two bodies. A place reserved for your metamorphosis, for what is shared between you.

You clutch at his hair, fingertips pressing into his scalp. It feels familiar in the worst of ways, and then you are reminded— you panic, running your hand down his neck and testing for a body and—

—and it slides down, uninterrupted, between his shoulder blades, and you know. Now, you can say it. Now, there is time.

“I love you,” you say, your voice wavering and breaking. “I’ve always... always... loved you.”

Lucifer shivers when your hand traces the ridge of his spine at his neck, and one of his hands runs up into your hair. He bends you further back, changing the angle, and you cry out for him. And then he’s kissing everything he can reach— your cheeks, your forehead, your nose, eyelids, the ridge of your brow, before finally settling on your lips and breathing heavily against you as you open up to him. He tastes like coffee and like the way light would taste if it had a flavor, a sort of pure lingering warmth.

“And I love you,” he whispers, frantically, feverishly. He speaks it like this is the only chance he will ever have. But you know there is so much time to hear it from his lips, again and again. “I love you, Sandalphon, I’ve loved you since the very moment you came to be, I—”

Your eyes squeeze shut, your breath catches, and heat bursts between your bodies again. It happens so quickly and so harshly that you nearly black out, given no chance to prepare or even warn him. And yet—

“I created you because— because I— wanted to love you— ah...”

His voice cracks, then trails off, and his grip on you becomes painfully strong. You know he’s close. You don’t want this to end, not yet, but you know there’s no helping it. And that this won’t be the last time.

(You hope so— a part of you still shakes with self-doubt, even with the undeniable fact of his body this close to yours, but you know better than to let it take over.)

You let go of everything, then— everything but the sensations, each wall you’ve built crumbling under the force of this feeling. Your hands scrabble for purchase at Lucifer’s back and claw long, red lines down his shoulder blades, marking places where you know his wings used to be, like you’re sharing your scars with him. You’re gasping for air, your mouth is dry, your eyes are watering; he’s so deep inside you that you feel like he’s marked you with his presence. That everything in you is his now. Everything you have ever been belongs to him. His hands hold your hips so tightly, little pinpricks of pain where his nails are digging in; you wonder if you’ll shatter. You feel close to it. You can’t get control enough, every limb is shaking and weak, and you roll frantically up against him, meeting every slam of his hips, throwing your whole body into the movements. He groans, gasps, murmurs so much sweetness into your ear where he’s bent over you, one hand between your bodies, the other pinning yours to the bed, fingers enlaced high above your head.

You burn for him. He breathes your name into your ear, less a quiet prayer than a frantic string of litanies, over and over again. “Sandalphon,” and heat rises to the surface of you. “Sandalphon, Sandalphon,” and your head strains backwards, baring your neck, vulnerable enough to let him bite, to tear your throat out if he wanted to, but instead he chooses to kiss. “I’m— I’m, oh, _Sandalphon._..”

You fall limp, then, overcome and overwhelmed. It’s impossible to form words anymore, and all you can do now is cry out, a long, whimpering moan the only thing left in your throat. You feel tears beading at the corners of your eyes. Your body shuddering, a wave of heat overtakes you, and your teeth clench and your eyes flutter and roll back as you’re pushed over the edge yet again, coming hard and completely dry this time, twitching around him.

Lucifer’s whole body is shaking where you’re clinging to him, and he groans out your name, the vibrations of his voice right against your ear. You feel his grip on you tighten, then fall loose, and his warmth fills you the way his light has always flooded your heart, and you feel— complete. Satisfied. Forgiven.

Your eyes close. You can feel him breathe against you. His hand slides up and cups your face, his thumb stroking over the bone of your cheek. A wave of shivers, first, at the touch; and then a calm veil settles over you, draping like silk over a covered sculpture. He’s still inside you, but neither of you really feel the need to move.

You don’t have to speak, anymore. There are no more words for this. Shrouded in something golden and eternal, a glow shared between the both of you. It isn’t possible to place it. You don’t want to pin down butterflies, or lock up a feeling in an attempt to define it.

Lucifer has never been good at words, either. He had tried, in the past. But everything has fallen flat, compared to this touch, to the apology. The more simple feelings.

_I want to be with you. I missed you. I’m sorry I left you. You mean the world to me. Thank you for being born._

His hand tightens in your own. You can feel his pulse between your fingers.

“Have you... always felt like this...?”

“Yes.” You nestle into his chest. “I’m sorry if it hurts.”

“No, it’s...” He breathes, long and slow. Your other hand rests on the curve of his back. “It feels like... everything. I do not have the words. I think I caught glimpses, before. I was learning...”

 

_(He could have loved you.)_

 

“You said you created me because you... wanted to love me.”

You can feel him smile.

“I did. And I do.”

 


End file.
